Mesmerized
by SophiaBoo
Summary: John Watson has been living with Sherlock Holmes for almost a year now. He admires his friend as he is the world's only Consulting Detective, the smartest man he's ever known. But what if what he feels goes beyond admiration? -ONE SHOT-


-Close the door –Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the dusty wardrobe. I did what I had become so used to in the last couple of months: as I was told by him. -John, look at this. - Again, I obeyed.

But I could see nothing.

-And what am I supposed to see, exactly?

-What do you see? –he asked me, still hypnotized by the piece of furniture in front of us.

-Umm, a wardrobe.

-Very good –Sherlock said with a contemptuous tone. - What else?

I sighed.

-Well, it's… dusty.

-Yes…

-Very. The entire room, actually, is very dirty.

-Correct… -he now looked at me and I suddenly realized.

-But not the floor here!

-Exactly! –he clapped his hands once and proceeded to knock the wardrobe door a couple times.

I snorted.

-Is anybody home?

-Shh…

-Sorry.

I took a closer look at the floor. There were some random spots… They looked like…

-Is that blood? – I asked, frowning.

-Certainly.

I blinked twice before I added:

-Human blood?

-More likely, yes.

I started connecting some inner cables.

-D'you think the stiff…? Well… -I cleared my throat a bit. - Is he in _there_? – I pointed my finger to the old wardrobe in disbelief. The man had died a week ago. Miles away.

-Apparently –he kept knocking.

-And how can you possibly know about that?

-Well, he hasn't replied, has he?

-But…

-Let's find out –he smiled.

Sherlock placed his hand on the door handle, took quick a peek at me, then turned it to the right very slowly and opened. He moved backwards as the poor man's body fell straight to the wooden floor and made a loud noise. It was definitely him.

-Well –my friend said. - That was plenty of noise to bring Lestrade and company here in a heartbeat… which for them, of course, would be in about…

-Two minutes? –I suggested.

-Enough time for me –he smiled again.

He bent down next to the body and began doing what he did so well.

I was rather used to watching him using his extraordinary abilities but that didn't mean I'd ceased to consider them amazing and stunning. Even more so, as time had gone by, I had grown more and more obsessed by the rare creature he was. So I never missed a chance to be a spectator, to observe as his hands moved rapidly from here to there, covering everything, _noticing_ everything. Also the way his eyes widened as he learned new things and the way his lips curved in a mischievous smile as, I was most certainly sure, he confirmed something he was suspecting to be true all along.

He looked rather happy, I thought. No, it wasn't happiness. It was something else, but definitely something new.

Then I wondered: was there any human thing left for me to see from Sherlock apart from romantic demonstrations of affection and a maybe, I don't know, hysterical laughter? Was it possible there was something else? I couldn't figure it out at that moment, but he looked kind of beautiful wearing that expression on his face.

Beautiful? _That_ was without a doubt something new! Sherlock, my best friend, the consulting detective, beautiful? I'd never used that word to describe him, ever, not even in my mind. Not that he wasn't, thinking about it, but I had never entertained that possibility before…

His hands were still moving along Bobby Elliott's body with extreme coldness. His hands. His pale thin hands. Those long fingers that sometimes ran through his hair while his mind seemed to disappear into his thoughts. I decided then that I liked his hands.

His dark hair was a mess that day, more than any other I remembered. Its curls bouncing funnily with Sherlock's every move. I liked his hair too.

His eyes were… Well, they changed with the weather and also with his mood. That was mesmerizing, unquestionably. One example of that phenomenon was The Aluminium Crutch case. _I wasn't actually there during the resolution as I was on a date with Sarah but Sherlock had left me a couple of voicemail messages explaining the whole thing. See, when I came back to the flat, he was already there, lying on the couch and pretending to be asleep. Of course he wasn't, he rarely even sleeps. But he thought I was Mrs Hudson so he did that not to be disturbed as he went back through all the data and verified it._

_-Did you really mistake me for our old landlady? _You_? –I asked him. He quickly opened his eyes, confused._

_-I… suppose I did… -his voice soft, eyes going up and down on me._

_-So you're telling me I now have the walking pace of a granny?_

_-I'm not, John, but that would be a perfect explanation, very good –I remember he smiled as he got up, came closer to me and petted my head. I growled and then looked into his eyes: they were something very close to purple._

So yeah, I absolutely loved his eyes as well.

And his voice, _oh_, that howling low sound that sometimes went inaudible reaching the end of the sentences. I was not to deny that was almost my favorite feature. He was able to make me do almost anything by just speaking, just saying so. And watching those fleshy lips articulating said words surely helped a lot. Or maybe it didn't, as he rarely asked for common doable favours.

I found myself touching my own lips as I looked at his and decided that wasn't okay. That was utterly, completely, extremely not good. He was my best friend, and he was a male! But I couldn't help it, could I? Sherlock Holmes, the brainy bloke who was now kneeling in front of me, whose red fleshy lips were murmuring God-knows-what as his long pale fingers ran through his perfect dark curls, whose currently green eyes were fixed on Bobby's naked toes… He was—

-Fascinating.

Sherlock raised his head and looked up at me with that confused face of his. That one I liked so much…

-John?

-Sorry, done it again.

He looked at a random point to his right.

-But I didn't say anything yet.

-Oh…

-Unless you read my mind, which in any case would be impossible, of course. - He said that very quickly. He could speak very, very fast. And I liked that too.

-Maybe I… -I coughed.- Well, maybe after all the time I've spent with you I… can actually read your mind… -He looked suspicious. I hurriedly explained myself. - Meaning, I know your methods and, therefore, I know what you may be seeing. –Awkward pause. - Does that make any sense to you?

-Actually, no. But no time for that right now. We'll discuss that later, if you don't mind.

-Umm, sure.

Sherlock took a peek at the closed door and then went back to his work. He probably was calculating how much more time he had left until a bunch of stupid policemen entered the room and annoyed him with their bare presence.

I couldn't afford to start thinking about him again, so I said:

-Anything?

He looked at me again. I couldn't help but notice his eyes were blue now. Absolutely beautiful.

-Well…

-Sorry, but since saying things out loud helps you think, I thought…

-Sure! Why not? Umm…

He swallowed and I saw his Adam's apple go down and up again. Then he took a deep breath and all that helped me go into a hypnotic state for a second or two. I shook my head and cleared my throat like I use to do when I'm tense.

-So, what do we have here?

-Bobby Elliott, as you may already know. Early forties, living on his own for a while now, didn't do any kind of sports (as you may have noticed, going by the state of his backside). Last Saturday morning, Mr Elliott…

Sorry, my brain went offline after hearing his use of the word _backside._ I just stood there like a moron, watching his lips working as he told me everything he knew. Or at least that's what he always made it look like. I was getting used to then learn he was hiding something from me. But I didn't mind. That mystery thing about him drove me out of my mind, too.

-Not again! Oh, sorry –I blushed as I went back to reality.

-Yeah, I know, we're being forced to see Anderson's stupid face again. –He was smiling, though.

-Sorry, what?

-His stupid walking pace is unmistakable. You were right; you're getting rather good at this!

-Oh… -I blushed even more.

-You'll now tell Lestrade everything I just told you. There isn't any time to waste on the police now. There's a murderer to catch, John!

-What? Where is he? Sherlock!

My friend took off like a thunder. He opened the door I had closed only five minutes ago and got out of the room. And there they were; Lestrade, Anderson and two more Scotland Yard men were about to come in just by the time Sherlock walked past them at the speed of light. He was good at running.

-Sherlock? Oi! Where are you going? What was that noise? –Lestrade wasn't even finished asking these questions before the tall man went out of the old house and started chasing a short fat fellow across the front garden, as I saw through the window.

-He'll be needing help! –I announced and that's when Lestrade finally brought his attention to me and the stiff lying to my side. – Oh, and I didn't kill him, by the way.

-Are you serious?! –the Detective Inspector shouted. – Bobby Elliott was here, then!

-Are you actually surprised Sherlock was right? – I inquired as I ran past them just like Sherlock had done seconds ago.

-But…

-I'll explain later! –and I ran down the stairs, two or three steps at a time.

The front garden was immense. Maybe too much for that old crappy house. The grass was left to luck and it had grown enough to reach my knees, which made my running quite difficult. I could see Sherlock about thirty feet away from where I was and the so called murderer fleeing from him but not for too long. Sherlock was close. So close.

He didn't have a gun. I held mine tight into my left pocket. I'd done this before. I'd killed a man for Sherlock. It wasn't that hard. But I had to wait for the right moment.

-Stop running! –I heard Sherlock shout to the man. – Do you really want to die like that? Because your body won't handle this much lo—

The short fat man turned around and faced my friend with crazy wild eyes. He looked insane, he was in fact about to cry.

I suddenly knew how it was going to end, so I ran as fast as I could and reached them as the man pulled out a gun and pointed it to Sherlock's forehead. I held my breath.

He didn't want to kill him, he didn't want to kill anyone but Bobby Elliott, but he had no choice. He didn't want to go to prison. I could almost read all this from his mind.

Sherlock looked calmed. Maybe he had read something different in him, I thought.

My heart was racing and my hands, shaking. I would not be able to pull out my own gun and shoot the man before he shot my friend. And there was no second attempt.

Vatican Cameos? No, that was useless. There had to be something I could do, but I couldn't think at all, not with Sherlock so close to dying. I was just standing there, eight feet away from him, staring at the scene, unable to act.

Then the man spoke:

-I thought he was my friend. I—I thought he cared about me. B—but he didn't. Turns out he didn't, HE BETRAYED ME! SO I KILLED HIM. HE LET ME DOWN AND I KILLED HIM. – His eyes widened scarily and I could almost see the blood running in the brains of his forehead. He was red with hatred and fear. - Now we're even…

A sigh. Did Sherlock actually sigh?

I couldn't even blink before he turned around, grabbed my free hand and pulled me closer. Then, my whole world went to pieces. Sherlock was kissing me. My legs felt like jelly and my heart skipped a beat. His lips were pressed against mine the same way my left hand was holding the gun in my pocket: tightly, firmly, and knowingly. A sucking noise escaped somewhere between our lips and a soft growl came out of Sherlock's throat right before we heard a shot. Sherlock let me go leaving his face only a few inches from mine, then I forgot how to breathe properly.

-Nope. _Now_ you're even –we heard Lestrade say. – Distraction, Sherlock, very good indeed! Risky but effective! You should have seen his face. You almost got me too!

-Oh, my _God_! I told you he was gay! –Anderson said with disgust somewhere at my right. Lestrade paid no mind.

-Okay, now, would you mind telling me what really went on? Sherlock? Sherlock?

But Sherlock wasn't listening. Or at least he didn't reply. He appeared to only have eyes for me. And I only had eyes for him, as usual.

When I finally remembered how to speak, I said, shocked:

-Sher… What the hell?

That came out in such a high pitch I thought only bats would hear me, but he replied:

-I'm—I'm very sorry, John.

He now looked sad.

-Oh, don't be! I mean… You had to, for the case… All for the case…

I was now smiling, so he seemed to cheer up.

-Absolutely. For the case –he smiled widely.

I looked deep into his eyes, which were almost purple again. Then I decided purple was my new favorite color.


End file.
